


Lipstick

by nerigby96



Series: Backstage Echoes [5]
Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Age Difference, Derogatory Language, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27590996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: December, 1945Dean finds a message on his dressing room mirror.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Series: Backstage Echoes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544167
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Lipstick

The girl’s been hanging around for half an hour. Dean’s spent most of the time trying to work out what’ll make her leave. Figures if he tries to go, she’ll follow. Thought maybe keeping his mouth shut might do it. Just quietly smoke and hardly look at her. Sit down heavily on one of the rickety dressing room chairs and try to make her understand he’d rather be alone. Rather be gone. Maybe he could have pulled it off, but his throat won’t cooperate. She speaks; he offers a noncommittal little noise; and then she speaks again. And even that small courtesy extended to her is enough to keep her in the room. To keep her talking and laughing and touching his knee. He rolls his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and stares at the orange tip. At the ash eating down to the filter.

He glances again at the mirror and finds he can’t look at it. Not fully. It sort of sneaks up on him every time. When he walked into the dressing room before the show, he found himself frozen there. Staring. Saw himself pulling out a handkerchief and wiping it. Smearing it. Failing to remove the message left for him. Looping cursive that takes up most of the glass. Flamboyant and excessive. A lot like his little pal, he thinks. And then wonders, is that cruel? Thinking of him that way? No, he decides, it’s not. He’d tease him that way, maybe, if words like _flamboyant_ came naturally to his tongue. And the boy would pout or cross his arms or maybe stamp his foot just once. Make his point. And then grin like a firework and forget all about it.

The girl’s pulled her chair so close their legs touch and now Dean stares at her pale knees. Something to focus on. Wonders if she’s cold in that ridiculous ( _Flamboyant_ ) ruffled skirt open at the front and her bare midriff. She took off the dangly earrings and necklace and left them on the table. Did little to improve the getup. Vertical stripes and a silk ribbon. Last time the kid played here he complained he couldn’t pull off an outfit like that. “But I guess,” he added, “the idea is for someone _else_ to pull it off.” And Dean shoved him out of the hotel room and wouldn’t let him back in until he promised to be good.

He sighs. His cigarette’s gone out and now the girl slips a hand into his jacket. Can’t be aware of how he tenses. Coiled and hard. His toes curl and click; his jaw sets. Even his scalp prickles. Goes cold. Oblivious, she flashes a smile. Pops a cigarette into her mouth and one in his and waits. Dean frowns. Then he fishes out his lighter and flicks the wheel. They hold their cigarettes in the flame until they catch and then sit back. Silent now. Shivering a little both. Here in the basement there’s little in the way of warmth. Maybe that’s why she’s come so close. She’s rubbing her arms now and Dean can’t tell if she’s serious. Sure, it’s cold, but outside he knows snow’s steadily settling and he’ll have to trudge back to the hotel with his collar turned up and another cigarette wedged between his teeth for scant relief and this girl’s complaining of a dressing room? Better here, Dean figures. But even better his hotel, warm in bed and alone.

The girl looks at the mirror. “I’m glad you left it,” she says. Dean grunts. Then looks too. Right at it for the first time since last night. Can’t decide what the problem is. What _his_ problem is. Maybe it’s not the message itself, but knowing this girl and Christ knows how many others saw something meant for him rankles. He sighs. Rubs the back of his neck. Doesn’t say he’d thought about cleaning it but stopped himself. Didn’t want to, really. He can see the kid so clearly in his mind’s eye, practically afire with excitement, with a giddy sort of trepidation as he scrawled on the mirror with – Dean is sure – a tube of lipstick.

_My darling Dago,  
Enjoy the crowd, I warmed ’em up for you.  
If you do half as good as me you’ll do pretty wonderful.  
Break a leg! (means good luck I swear)  
Yours,  
The Jolly Jew_

Next to that charming epithet sits a set of scarlet lips.

The girl laughs. It’s a wistful sort of noise. “He was so excited doing that. Gosh, it was the cutest thing.”

Dean doesn’t doubt it. He goes to the mirror. Any excuse, really, to get away from her. Crushes the cigarette in the ashtray. Hands in his pockets, head cocked and studying the message again – avoiding her eyes in the glass – he says, “You met Jerry.”

She laughs again. Gets out of her chair. “Who do you think gave him the lipstick?”

“Ah.” He taps a nail against the perfect imprint of full red lips. “I take it this is yours, too?” He does look at her now. In the glass, though. Can’t quite make himself turn around. Isn’t sure why.

“Well,” she says. Lowers her eyes. And then, soft and smiling: “I gave him the lipstick.”

“Hm.” He almost wishes he were surprised. But he can see that, too. Perfectly. This girl, part of the gag, handing him a little black tube and Jerry peering into a small patch of clean glass and without hesitation finishing what he started. This girl standing back and saying nothing. Maybe laughing, because Jerry’s funny. But Dean can’t see him laughing. Dean sees him serious. Earnest. It would make sense to Jer, he figures, leaving a real kiss instead of a cross.

The girl walks up behind him. “He was very sweet.” Touches his back. “Too sweet, really. Very young. I couldn’t believe he was married.”

Dean nods. She’s so close he suddenly feels like he’s trapped. Like the door’s slammed shut and locked itself. He glances there now. It’s still ajar, thank God. He takes a breath. Knows already what to do to put an end to this. Get out of the dressing room. Figured it out when he felt those fingers on the small of his back. Won’t take long. Quicker and easier than working out the words to make her leave.

He turns and looks into her face. She touches his chest.

“It’s cold here,” she says.

Dean doesn’t know how to tell her he already knew that so he keeps his mouth shut.

Smiling, she adds, “Warm me up.”


End file.
